Page 48 of Velvet Betrayal
Nothing…until just after four, when a black Escalade with seven-figure glass and unfamiliar plates idled at the curb just beyond the smoking stoop.
It’d been cruising around all morning, but something felt wrong about this pass, about the way the rear window cracked down an inch before the engine even cut. I watched as a guy got out—white, late thirties, gym-fit in the way cops or federal muscle tend to be—earphones in his ear, hands free.
He glanced up the block, squinted, rolled his shoulders like he was cold or trying to shake off a bad thought. He didn’t go inside. He just walked a tight loop around the plaza, phone at his jaw, then got back in the car, which rolled a half-block and parked again. It repeated: park, circle, scan, re-park. Always the guy in the suit and the guy in the back, never trading places, like they were waiting for something only they could see.
I drifted toward the edge of the plaza for a better look. The guy didn’t see me; he barely looked at anything but his phone and the building’s door. After a minute, he nodded to the glass, muttered something into his mic, and started walking. He didn’t even bother glancing for tails, which told me he wasn’t shy, or worse, didn’t need to be.
Which meant this was either a well-insured professional, or a guy being paid exactly enough to not care if something went down in thirty yards of public real estate.
I snapped a pic of the plates as the Escalade made its next lazy orbit. Massachusetts vanity, not in the city system. The driver was so clean-cut he looked like a parody, but the passenger in the back sat at a slouch—like he was reminding the world he didn’t need to be seen until he wanted it. I recognized that posture. Callahan confidence, except the only Callahan I’d expect wasn’t supposed to be in this part of the city for another week.
I texted the plate to Tristan. No reply for two minutes. Then, predictably, a call.
“You’re shadowing your own girlfriend?” Tristan’s voice was cool and flat. “That’s not healthy.”
“Don’t call her that,” I said. “And yeah. You told me the Crew was handled. This isn’t them.”
“How do you know?”
“Because they’re not hiding. SUV with government plates, two passengers. Parked three times in full view of City Hall. They didn’t blink when I made eye contact.”
“So…feds.”
“Yeah. Most likely. I just want to know what they’re waiting for.”
There was a pause. Paper rustling—Tristan already pulling threads. “They’re probably not moving yet. Just keeping eyes.”
“Then I’ll keep mine too,” I said.
“I’ll check it. Stay on her until she leaves. Then chase her home. And don’t—” he paused, annoyed— “don’t let her know you’re protecting her. If she smells it on you, you’ll only convince her she’s in real danger. I need her not to panic.”
“She’s smarter than both of us. She’s already planning two moves ahead.”
“Then keep up.” Click.
I watched the Escalade and the muscle man for a while longer. At five-thirty, Ruby emerged, scarf looped twice around her neck, shoulders squared against the cold and the city. She crossed the plaza, hit the sidewalk, spun north. Muscle tracked her with his body, but didn’t move in—just hovered at his perimeter, watching with a calculation that was pure efficiency, no obsession.
She ducked into a pharmacy two blocks up. I followed, lagging three windows behind. Muscle entered, too. He picked up a basket and fucked around the cold-and-flu aisle, holding a box of Advil like it was a live grenade. I moved closer, under the anxiety glow of fluorescent lights and the shimmer of seasonal discount candy.
Ruby was at the counter, exchanging words with the clerk. She smiled at something the woman said, and for a second, I hoped she’d spotted me, acknowledged the shadowing, but hergaze was locked somewhere beyond me, running the odds on daylight violence.
Muscle shifted behind me, sliding a magazine into his open palm. He leaned at the aisle corner, not watching the register, but watching every customer that entered, in, out, in. He was eating the scene with his eyes, never blinking.
I faked a call, dropped my phone mid-conversation, bent to retrieve it. On the way up, pocketed a glance: his ears, the soft bruising just under the lobe (recent sparring, or worse), the telltale flash of hardware in the wrist when he turned at a certain angle. Ex-military, probably. Or a cop who got canned before the pension.
He saw me see him, and for a second, total stillness—then a half-smile, like we’d both just clocked each other in a boxing ring and agreed we were better as teammates than rivals.
Ruby left the counter, orange pharmacy bag dangling from three fingers, and drifted to the door. She held the handle just a hair too long, buying herself a backward glance at the aisles, the mirrors, everything. She clocked me, but didn’t let her face betray even a tremor.
I let her go. As soon as I did, muscle followed, keeping a lazy ten paces, then merging down the sidewalk.
Fuck.
I didn’t know what this man wanted. All I knew was that it couldn’t be good.
He was getting closer to her now.
I picked up my own pace, waited for a break in traffic to cut across, and slid a step or two behind. If he tried to make it to arm’s length, I’d close the gap. If he laid eyes or hands on her before I did, I was ready to break them both.
